


For Silver and Safety

by gwennolmarie



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forced Prostitution, Multi, NOT REALLY read the notes PLEASE, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Prostitution, Self-Doubt, a little bit, acting under duress, dutch is a dumbass but what's new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 08:38:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18752848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwennolmarie/pseuds/gwennolmarie
Summary: John doesn't put requests for items in all that often, and this one is suspicious at best.





	For Silver and Safety

**Author's Note:**

> so! this is self imposed duress, john takes something dutch says as gospel and then tries his hand at selling his 'services' under the fear of being forced to or booted from the gang and arthur finds out and reassures him and shuts that shit down

There really shouldn’t have been anything conspicuous about it.

Arthur frowned down at the list, between glances at the road as he drove the wagon into town.

It was a healing-salve.

They kept it stocked in the medical supplies.

It was in stock, at least it was two days ago when Miss Grimshaw had shoved him into a seat and forced him to spread some on the minor burn he’d gotten on his arm.

What was odd, on top of them not currently needing it, was _who_ added it to the list.

Arthur had always been the one to be awoken from a nap with a notebook thumping onto his chest. John standing, angry and ashamed when he couldn’t finish the ‘homework’ Hosea had assigned him.

All those times, of reading John’s shaky, scrawling loops and correcting mistakes silently in the margins with a pencil.

John hadn’t let him explain anything, stubbornly insisting he’d figure it out, he just needed the right letters in the right order.

John’s handwriting stands out to him, on the list.

Why would John need healing salve?

Why couldn’t he just use the camp’s?

Arthur parks the wagon in front of the general store and picks up the gang’s regular order before adding the few items added to the ‘personal requests’ list in his pocket.

Including the salve. The tin of which he slips into the interior of his jacket.

\--

Arthur helps unload the last bags of oats and chicken feed then hops down, a crate of ‘personal-requests’ in his arms.

It was mostly for the ladies, feminine items and whatnot, occasionally a tool would end up on the list when one broke or became frustrating to use.

Arthur sets it on a table to a chorus of ‘thank you’s.

He steps back and leans against a tree with his knife in one hand, sandstone in the other.

He doesn’t really need to sharpen his knife.

He watches.

Waits.

John comes from the other edge of the camp and peers into the crate before frowning when he doesn’t see the salve.

Arthur keeps his eyes on his knife but sees John glance at him in his peripheral.

He lifts his head, if only to catch the younger man out.

John’s eyes widen slightly and he glances away briefly.

Arthur thinks it hard to tell in dim light, the sun setting behind dense pines.

But John looks flushed, angry and ashamed and a little embarrassed like he always did when he couldn’t figure out a problem on his own.

\--

Arthur keeps a closer eye on John.

He manages to snag the seat next to the younger man and subtly watches him.

“You still eat like you don’t know where your next meal is comin’ from,” Arthur murmurs to the younger man between bites of overcooked rabbit stew.

Glances over to see John tensed, hands white-knuckled around the spoon and the lip of the tin-bowl.

“You know you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that,” Arthur says roughly, awkwardly.

Not sure why he’s so concerned with reassuring the younger man.

John doesn’t answer, lowers his bowl to his lap and looks like he’s lost his appetite.

“Plenty o’ folk here would sooner feed you than themselves,” Arthur shrugs and goes back to eating.

“Would they, really?” John asks hoarsely, disbelieving.

Arthur squints at the younger in confusion.

“We did sometimes, you know, when you was younger,” Arthur uses the back of his hand with his spoon to rub at his scraggly beard.

The words don’t seem to help John.

If anything the younger man looks more miserable than before.

Arthur struggles to find anything else to say.

So he says nothing.

Goes back to his food.

John excuses himself shortly after, leaving the remnants of his dinner at the base of the fire.

Arthur snags an extra chunk of the bread he’d brought back today and follows.

\--

John slips into his tent and Arthur enters right after him.

John glances up sharply from where he’d been crouching over his packs, next to his bedroll.

“What?” John asks, voice thick and exhausted.

“What what? You’re the one actin’ funny.”

John looks furious for a second.

It gives way to tiredness.

Arthur’s mouth quirks to the side, uncomfortable.

He knows though, if he doesn’t sort shit out now it’ll keep him up tonight.

“What’s wrong with you?” Arthur asks, a touch impatient.

“Nothin’, Arthur,” John tries to insist, his tone sounds anything but confident in that statement.

“Sure,” The older man says and sighs, shifting his weight then digging the tin out of his jacket.

John’s eyes lock onto it.

“Whatchu need this for?” Arthur asks.

“I…” John falters.

“You…?” Arthur mocks.

“I just need it, Arthur,” John grunts and sits on his bedroll, looking at the grass between his boot-heels.

“Why can’t you use the camp’s supply?” Arthur squints at the younger, “You hurt?”

“If you ain’t gonna give it to me, why’d you buy it?” John asks, glaring at the ground, every muscle tensed with frustration and defensiveness.

“Didn’t say I wasn’t gonna give it to you,” Arthur rubs his thumb over the smooth, painted metal, “But you gotta tell me why, first.”

John doesn’t answer immediately.

Arthur isn’t the most patient man, but he can wait.

John’s fingers angrily twist and tug blades of grass up, then toss them to the side.

When Arthur looks closer at the ground there are quite a few patches of grass, no longer rooted in the dirt, and not yet yellowed with death.

“You ‘member that workin’ girl we broke out last month?” John asks quietly, stripping a blade in ribbons.

“Yeah, sure,” Arthur shrugs.

“She said somethin’ to me after you left, said a lotta things,” John mutters the last bit.

“And?”

“You heard Dutch, the other day,” John says thickly, like he can hardly force the words out.

“When he was tellin’ you to do your part? What ‘bout it? He tells everyone that shit, you gotta pitch in.”

“Did… Did you hear what he said before walking away?”

“No…” Arthur says, dread building in him.

Everyone had heard the first part of the argument.

It started when John came back empty-handed from a hunt, ended in Dutch with a finger shoved into John’s sternum, whispering harshly.

“‘You better start contributin’, Son. Before I decide to sell you and make up the difference.’”

“You know he didn’t mean that. Jesus, John, the man’s just got a dramatic streak,” Arthur insists but there’s a heavy churning in his stomach.

Like the stew isn’t quite settling with him.

“Sounded pretty serious,” John says.

More defeated than Arthur has ever heard him.

“That doesn’t explain why you need _this,”_ Arthur gestures with the salve.

“The girl told me I’d do well in her line o’ work,” John curls up, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping gangly arms around his shins, “Told me what’d I need to do, and where to go, who to avoid.”

Arthur feels like someone yanked the ground out from under him.

“You dumbass,” Arthur hisses.

John flinches violently and curls up further.

“You…” Arthur grunts and drags a hand down his face, “You ain’t doin’ that.”

“Why not? Good money,” John shrugs, a slight lift and slump of his shoulders.

“You ain’t gonna let some _twisted_ men... “ Arthur huffs out an angry breath at the thought, “Nah, I ain’t lettin’ you.”

John’s shaky inhales are the loudest thing in the tent for the next minute.

Two minutes.

Three.

“What can I _do?”_ John whispers hoarsely, “I ain’t good at _shit.”_

“Yeah? And you think you’d be good at being a whore?” Arthur growls.

“It ain’t that bad… The girls are nice,” John says quietly.

“You ain’t… Ain’t even done _that_ yet,” Arthur’s face screws up, “Right?”

John shifts uncomfortably.

Doesn’t answer.

“John?” Arthur asks softly.

“Put a hundred in the box yesterday,” John says instead of answering.

Fury courses through Arthur.

“Jesus,” He croaks.

John’s fingers twist the grass again.

“Jesus,” Arthur repeats.

“It’s good money,” John insists.

“It ain’t good _for you,”_ Arthur insists right back.

“Can I have the salve?” John chokes out, reaching up a hand but not looking at Arthur.

“Why…Good Lord, do I even wanna know?” Arthur trails off more to himself.

“You ain’t dumb, Arthur,” John murmurs, but retracts his hand and lets his head fall forward onto his knees.

John’s right, for as much as people, the gang members included, insult his intelligence, he ain’t _that_ dumb.

Arthur scrubs his hand roughly over his face then pulls the hunk of bread out of his pocket.

Kneels in front of John and shoves it at the younger man until John takes it.

John glances between the bread and Arthur briefly in confusion then takes it and eats slowly.

“You ain’t gonna do _that_ anymore, you hear me?” Arthur demands, quiet but firm.

“Dutch won’t be happy…”

“Dutch ain’t ever really happy,” Arthur grumbles.

“What else can I do, Art?” John asks, defeated, reverting to the nickname Arthur hasn’t heard in _years._

“Just come with me, when I get bounties,” Arthur murmurs, “You’ll be able to help.”

“Are you sure?” John asks.

“Yeah,” Arthur reaches out a hand and squeezes John’s knee, “I’m damn sure.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i've had this in the depths of my documents since january and reworked it a tiny bit. as you might know by now i hc john with a lot of anxiety and self confidence issues even pre abigail so i feel like this line of action is actually feasible but it's ugh


End file.
